


Farther

by onlyclueingforlooks



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Historical AU, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, i will fight thomas hardy personally, novel based au, wip but it will have a happy ending i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:33:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4451378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyclueingforlooks/pseuds/onlyclueingforlooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Far From the Madding Crowd AU taking place in nineteenth century rural England.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes's life as a shepherd is painfully ordinary. However, when John Watson moves next door to him, Sherlock begins to focus on far more than his flock of sheep. </p><p>Author's Note: You definitely do not need to have read Far From the Madding Crowd in order to read Farther. There will be some especially surprising things here if you haven't read Hardy's novel, so there you go. Many of the character dynamics are a fair amount different than they are in Far From the Madding Crowd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something New

Sherlock Holmes was alone in the meadow on the day that the wagon came.

The rumbling of wheels and the clomping of hooves disrupted the otherwise peaceful June day, and Holmes found his focus drawn away from his two working dogs and his flock of thirty-seven fat sheep and toward the dark silhouette of a vehicle as it moved across the hill.

_Something new._

He furrowed his eyebrows, squinting at the horizon as the open carriage drew closer. As it neared him, Holmes began to make out its occupants. An old woman sat on the quilted seat, surveying the surrounding fields and pastures as though each blade of grass was all her own. As the cart passed, she met Sherlock’s eyes, twisting her mouth to form a bizarre grin. There was something sinister and secretive in her watchful gaze that rather disturbed Holmes. He quickly looked away.

Next to the strange woman sat a young man of small stature. He did not share in his companion’s foreboding air; rather, the young man stared out at the meadows with an innocence that Holmes had not often seen before. The wind in the grass and the brilliant blue of the sky captivated the young man. The man's enchantment at the beauty that had lately become lost upon Sherlock reawakened his own youthful spirit. Sherlock looked upon the young man as the young man looked upon the world around him.

Just as the passing carriage caused Holmes’ flock of sheep to look up from the grass in confusion and agitation, such did the commotion distract Holmes’ two sheepherding dogs from their own profession. Sherlock’s older dog, a matted Shetland sheepdog named Oak, first wandered from Sherlock’s side and away from the meadow. Oak’s younger companion followed his lead, barking at the trotting horse before launching himself forward to chase the vehicle. Abandoning the flock, the dogs ran down the hill and toward the dark wagon, snarling loudly as they bounded along the gravel road.

Panicking, Holmes whistled after the dogs, following them down the winding gravel road. The young man in the carriage looked up at Sherlock, his thin lips twisting slightly in confusion. The man then looked down at the barking dogs, who bounded nearer to the cart with each passing moment. He whispered something into the old woman’s ear.  
Raising her arm, the old woman turned back to the carriage driver. “Stop the cart for a moment, would you?”

The driver obeyed and halted the carriage in the middle of the road. The dogs slowed, abandoning their chase. At last successfully calling his dogs back to him, Sherlock walked to the back of the carriage.

“I’m so sorry. They’re friendly, I promise,” Sherlock said as he caught his breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The young man was staring at Sherlock, the light glimmering off of his blue eyes. Suddenly, Sherlock was very conscious of his disheveled appearance. He felt his muscles tense and looked downward, straightening his clothing. Sherlock continued nervously. “It’s just that we don’t tend to get many visitors coming down this road. The dogs aren’t used to it, you know? In any case, I--”

“It’s no trouble at all,” the young man said, interrupting Sherlock’s uneasy rambling. He looked expectantly at his elderly companion. “Is it?”

The old woman grumbled.

Turning back to Sherlock, the young man spoke again. “It’s my first time in this part of the country. It really is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Sherlock shifted his weight. “Yes.” Silence floated between them for a moment. Desperate to fill it, Sherlock spoke again. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Sherlock coughed, then continued. “Where are you staying?”

The young man smiled. “Just at the bottom of the hill.” He stretched his hand over the edge of the carriage. “I’m John Watson.”

Sherlock took John Watson’s hand in his own and shook it. A smile began to spread along the outer corners of his mouth. “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Pleasure.” John gestured to the old woman on the seat next to him. “And this is my aunt, Mildred Hurst.” John looked down for a moment. “She owns the house where I’ll be living for these next few months. I take it you haven’t met before.”

“No, it would seem we haven’t.” Sherlock offered a hand to Mrs. Hurst, but she merely sighed and looked away.

John Watson turned his attention back to Sherlock. “Well, we’d best be off. I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock stepped away from the carriage, which again began to move forward. “And I you, Mr. Watson.”

John Watson smiled back at Sherlock. “Just John, please,” John shouted as the carriage pulled away.

“Right,” Sherlock said softly, turning his attention back to his flock, who had wandered to the edge of the meadow.

“John.”

 

 


	2. An Encounter

After their first encounter, Sherlock seldom saw John Watson. Perhaps it was because of the distance between their homes. Perhaps it was because John simply didn’t venture outside of his aunt’s farm. However, as summer drew to a close, Sherlock looked out of his kitchen window to see Mildred Hurst’s carriage travelling down the road once again. Curious, he stacked a final dish next to the sink and stepped outside.

A cool breeze hit Sherlock as he closed the door, making his every hair stand on end. He waved at the carriage.

“Sherlock, isn’t it?” John’s familiar voice called out. Sherlock’s name sounded warm and sweet coming from John’s mouth. Sherlock smiled.

“And John Watson, I recall.”

“Yes,” John grinned as he stopped the carriage in front of Sherlock’s home. “Good to see you again.”

Sherlock looked down, then back up to John, unsure of what to say: he spent very little time with other people. How, then, should he begin to initiate a conversation with John, who was more attractive and personable than any man he’d known? He shouldn’t: that was the answer, Sherlock decided. Best stick to sheep.

Sherlock forced his eyes from John, at last breaking the silence between them. “What brings you down the road today?”

“Milly’s sick. She sent me out to the market to buy food for the week. Gave me directions as to how to reach town.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Is this your first time out alone, then?”

John looked down. “It is. It can be rather difficult to navigate these roads, but I’m sure I’ll learn them eventually. It’s just all so new, you know?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, adding, after a second of silence, “if you ever need any help learning the roads, do let me know. I would be glad to show you around.”

John looked back up at Sherlock. “Actually, I may take you up on that offer. What are your plans this afternoon?”

Sherlock hesitated. “You mean, today?”

“This afternoon is today, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Well, then, are you available? I could use your guidance, if that’s all right.”

Sherlock looked down. “I mean, I didn’t have anything planned--”

“Fantastic.” John transferred the horses’ reins to one hand, extending the other hand to Sherlock. “Hop on.”

Sherlock grasped it and stepped into the carriage. John’s hand was soft and warm. He regretted the moment that he let it go.

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Right then. Continue down this road for about half a kilometer.”

 

 


	3. An Errand

“So we turn left here,” John said, turning to Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Then you’ll keep going straight for a stretch. We’re almost there.”

The carriage jostled, knocking John and Sherlock together. Sherlock drew back, moving toward the opposite edge of the seat.

“Sorry,” he said. “The roads are rather uneven. Not many people come this way.”

John seemed completely unfazed. “No matter. Though we might want to go a bit faster. We’d best be home before dark.” John flicked his reigns. Immediately, the horses began to trot faster. Sherlock grabbed onto his seat in order to keep his balance. His hand brushed the side of John’s thigh and he felt every nerve in his body tense up.

John turned his head toward Sherlock and grinned. “Enjoying the ride?”

Sherlock returned John’s smile, and a nervous laugh escaped him. “Yes.” He took a breath. “Of course. You’re certainly a remarkable coachman.”

John looked back toward the road and sighed. “Remarkable. I trust you mean that in a positive manner?”

“Well…”

“You know, don’t answer that,” John said, smiling. “I’ll just let your choice of language speak for itself.”

“That would be best.” Sherlock laughed again, yet it was no longer a nervous laugh. It was comfortable. Familiar, even. He moved back toward John, no longer afraid of knocking into him because of some rock in the road. Rather, Sherlock found himself welcoming the intimacy.

However, Sherlock remembered, he barely knew John Watson. Moreover, John Watson barely knew him. Though Sherlock valued John’s companionship more than he could have possibly expected, John may have thought nothing of this interaction at all.

John may not care.

And why should he? John was bold, confident, full of life. People were naturally attracted to him. Sherlock, however, was perpetually isolated, so much so that he never even realized that he was lonely. Not until now.

“I think I see the market just ahead,” John said, bringing Sherlock back into the present moment.

“Yes, here we are. You can stop the carriage anywhere you would like.”

John pulled back on the reigns and the horses slowed. He jerked them back once again. Sherlock saw each muscle tense in John’s arm. He took a deep breath, biting his lower lip. As the horses came to a stop, John stood. Following John’s lead, Sherlock got up and stepped off of the carriage. The ground felt hard and unfamiliar after the long ride.

John made his way to the side of the carriage, and, without thinking, Sherlock offered him a hand. John took it as he stepped off. Sherlock again felt John’s warmth and strength, keeping contact for just half a second longer than was needed until John lightly pulled away.

“You know,” Sherlock said, “if you want to go inside alone and buy everything you need, I can wait here. I’ll look after the horses for you.”

John looked away from Sherlock. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. We can tie them up here and it should be just fine.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Go ahead.”

John shook his head lightly. “All right, then.” He patted Sherlock on the arm. “I won’t be long.”

“I’ll be here.”

As soon as John was out of sight, Sherlock turned to the horses.

They were quite beautiful, Sherlock realized. They were both the same warm chestnut color, with dark manes and nearly identical white marks beneath their forelocks. One of them let out a breath. Sherlock lifted a hand to stroke its nose. It nuzzled up against him.

Animals were straightforward. Dogs, sheep, and horses alike. They wanted food, water, shelter, and, often, love. Sherlock understood animals. The affection that they demanded was an affection he could supply without fear of judgment or rejection. He appreciated them, and, in turn, they appreciated him.

People were not that simple.

In the abstract, of course, Sherlock understood people. He could comprehend their motivations and justify their actions. However, he could not understand how to form strong relationships with people. To Sherlock, attachments were bizarre not so much because of their own characteristics, but rather, because Sherlock had never truly attempted to understand them. After an early lack of success, Sherlock had ceased trying to form these relationships. On the streets, he witnessed friends, lovers, and family, yet he never thought that he would find a bond like those people had. Sherlock had been content in his isolation, trying to forget about the relationships he didn’t think he could ever have. Keeping himself far away from the things that he did not understand.

John Watson made Sherlock want to understand.

“Are you ready to head back?”

John’s voice startled Sherlock, who quickly turned around to face him.

“You were right,” Sherlock said. “That was quick.”

John looked down at the small bag in his hand. “I knew what I needed. ”

 

❋❋❋❋❋❋

 

On the carriage ride home, Sherlock and John hardly spoke. The steady pounding of the horses’ hooves made up the only noise that Sherlock heard.

It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, Sherlock decided. He and John were no longer strangers; small talk wasn’t necessary. They simply didn’t need empty words to fill the space between them.

As Sherlock looked down at John’s market bag, it dawned on him that the small tote could not possibly hold enough food for the entire week. It contained a loaf of bread at the very most. No, John had not at all gone to the market that day out of necessity.

Sherlock looked at John and smiled.

John turned to him, taking the reigns together in one hand and placing his other hand on the seat between him and Sherlock. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, almost laughing. “Nothing at all.”

Sherlock lowered his hand to the seat. He placed it on top of John’s. Two of their fingers touched. Sherlock expected John to pull away, but he did not. As the sun set around them, their world stood still.


	4. Autumn

“Thank you for coming down today. I can certainly use the help,” John said. His ax came down upon the log, splitting it neatly in two.

“Of course.” Sherlock hacked at his own log. With each chop, it jaggedly broke into pieces, sending bits of wood flying through the air.

“It’s certainly getting colder. Do you get much snow here?”

“Sometimes, though it tends not to come until December. The winter isn’t terribly harsh here, you’ll find.”

“Good.”

Winded, Sherlock lowered his axe. He looked over to John. John, whose each movement fit into a regular rhythm and who could split a log with a single blow. As John raised his axe once again, every muscle in Sherlock’s body clenched. He watched silently as John’s strong arms brought down the instrument onto the wood. Sherlock blinked slowly, then opened his eyes and ran them softly over all of John, careful not to miss a single detail. Sherlock’s breathing quickened.

He quickly looked away and began to chop again. As his axe fell, Sherlock let out a soft groan.

John turned to him. “Are you having any trouble?”

Sherlock looked down. “Not at all. Why would I be?”

“It’s just that…” John trailed off. He looked down at the halved logs. “Never mind that. We’ve been out here long enough and I should say that we have more than enough wood to start the season.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked. “I can chop a few more. It’s truly no trouble.”

He thinks you’re weak, Sherlock thought. He pities you.

John smiled. His smiles were always full of confidence, it seemed. “Of course not. Do come inside for tea. I’ve cleared out the chimney, after all; we can build the first fire of the season.”

“I couldn’t possibly impose on you or on Mrs. Hurst. Another time, maybe.”

As Sherlock turned to walk away, John grabbed him by the arm. “Milly’s gone to town, and you wouldn’t be imposing at all. Rather, I would love to have your company. Frankly, Sherlock, I insist.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. John had not called him by his name since their first few meetings, and he had certainly never pronounced it in such a passionate and familiar way. At once, Sherlock longed to hear it again.

“All right, I’ll come inside,” Sherlock relented. A subtle grin began to spread across his face.

John picked up a log from the newly chopped pile and brought it inside, holding the door open for Sherlock. Sherlock had never seen John’s home before. Cautiously, he stepped inside. A circular dining table sat between the modest kitchen and the living area, where two large armchairs rested, one blue and one black. The home had a simple and inviting atmosphere that put Sherlock relatively at ease.

John placed the log in the fireplace and lit a match. Pieces of the wood began to turn dark and crumble into the fire.

“You have a lovely home,” said Sherlock, noticing the silence that had persisted for over a minute.

“It isn’t much, but it serves its purpose. Take a seat,” said John, gesturing to the blue armchair. “I’ll put on the kettle.”

Sherlock sank down into the chair. As he watched John moving through the kitchen, Sherlock smiled. Though he had been acquainted with John Watson for several months, John had never seemed truly accessible to him. However, as he sat in John’s living room, Sherlock could not help but think how natural and domestic John’s life now seemed.

“Do you take sugar?” John asked, handing Sherlock a steaming china cup and saucer.

“I do. Yes.”

“All right, if you’ll excuse me for one moment.” John went into the kitchen and returned with his own tea and a bowl of sugar cubes. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.” John took a sip of his tea. “How’s the flock?”

“They’re doing quite well. I have a few pregnant ewes who I’ve been careful to look after recently. It’s important that they stay healthy through the winter.”

“I’m sure it is.” After a moment, John spoke again. “Do you truly take care of that entire farm alone?” he asked. “Your wife helps you at least, I’m sure.”

Sherlock looked down. “I haven’t got a wife.”

“Oh,” John said. He bit his lip.

“Yes.”

They sat in silence.

“Are you finished with your tea?” John finally asked.

“Yes, Yes, I am,” Sherlock stuttered. “Let me help you with the dishes.”

“All right. You can just bring them into the kitchen. Here,” John said, beginning to take the cup and saucer from Sherlock.

Yet Sherlock did not let go, and John did not force him to do so. For the first time that day, Sherlock looked up to meet John’s gaze. He could feel John’s breath on his face and neck, could smell the sweetness of the tea. A chill ran down Sherlock’s spine. He could almost feel John’s pulse through the saucer. His hands shook.

He leaned in toward John, steadying his breathing. He felt the warmth of John’s body, now so close to his own.

Suddenly, John closed the gap between them. His lips met Sherlock’s, sweet and tender. Sherlock could hardly catch his breath to gasp. He felt his heart beating out of his chest and wondered how John did not hear it.

As their lips gently parted, Sherlock looked again into John’s eyes.

John pursed his lips, at last taking the teacup and saucer away and setting them in the sink. “Well.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and lightly touched John’s hand. “It’s getting dark. I’m sure your aunt will be back soon.” Sherlock let out a light laugh. “I hope to see you soon, John Watson.”

As Sherlock walked back up the hill to his own farm, his smile was impossible to conceal.


	5. Time

Sherlock stood in the meadow, surrounded by his flock of sheep. The chill of the wind turned his nose and ears red, and he could see his breath in the cold of the autumn morning. The trees were bare except for a few brown leaves that clung to the edge of the branches.

As the sheep grazed, Sherlock stared down the hill at the small brick house with smoke pouring out of its chimney. The firewood was being put to good use, it seemed.

Sherlock had not spoken to John once in the last week. It was bizarre. John tended to call upon Sherlock for various errands at least several times every few days. At the very least, John would wave as he passed Sherlock’s farm in his carriage. Yet although Sherlock had seen John on his way into town at least twice (Tuesday and Thursday, to be precise; Sherlock had kept track), John had not even raised a hand to say hello. He had just continued forward, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

On Friday, Sherlock had walked down the hill and knocked on John’s door, hoping at the very least to see his face. Unfortunately, Mildred Hurst had been the one to greet him, saying simply that John had gone out for a bit and that she did not know when he would return. John’s aunt was not much of a conversationalist, Sherlock had decided.

John was certainly home now. The carriage sat next to his house, and clouds of chimney smoke continued to rise to the sky. If Sherlock were to walk down now, John would undoubtedly be the one to answer the door. Yes, Sherlock decided, he would go down.

Sherlock whistled for his dogs. They trotted over to him at his call, bringing with them their flock of sheep. As the sheep walked toward the barn, Sherlock opened the gate, careful to latch the sheep into their enclosure. A series of ridges and cliffs lay little less than a kilometer from the barn on Sherlock’s land, and he did not trust his dogs to guide the sheep away from the dangerous area without his attention.

As Sherlock began to walk down the hill, it dawned on him that he had little idea of what to say to John after he opened the door.

John Watson, you haven’t spoken to me in a week but might I remind you that you kissed me and I seem to remember that you enjoyed it a fair amount.

I’ve missed you this week. Shall we have tea again? Much like last time, I should hope.

Hello.

Sherlock approached John’s door. He knocked and it swung open.

John Watson stood in the entryway, his short, blond hair slightly pushed to one side. As he registered Sherlock, his expression shifted from a polite smile to a vaguely uncomfortable half-grin that made Sherlock uneasy. Neither of them spoke.

“John, who is it at the door?” Sherlock heard Mrs. Hurst call from the sitting room.

John turned around. “It’s no one, Milly. There’s no need for you to get up. We’ll only be a moment.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. No one.

John turned back to Sherlock. “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock met John’s eyes. “It has been eight days, two hours, and seventeen minutes since we last spoke.”

John looked down at his watch. “Eighteen, as a matter of fact.”

Sherlock let a small smile form at the corners of his mouth. “Eighteen, then.”

John shifted his weight. “Milly’s been sick lately, Sherlock. It had been fairly on-and-off for a few months, but at the moment, it seems to be fairly serious.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

John took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is that I think I’d best focus on that more than any… personal affairs, I should say.”

“John,” Sherlock said, remaining calm, “may I remind you that you were the one to kiss me.”

John pressed a finger to his lips. “I know, and I would like to do that again soon, I promise you. However, I also certainly don’t need Milly to hear about this. She wants me to marry a rich young woman and provide for her. I doubt that her leaning about any of this would help her current state. Do you understand?”

Of course, Sherlock thought. John was concerned with family. Nonetheless, Sherlock nodded.

John sighed. “I’m sorry. That’s what I should tell you. It was wrong of me to be silent for a week--”

“Eight days,” Sherlock interrupted.

“More than a week then, yes. I should have at least stopped along the road instead of ignoring the issue.”

Sherlock looked down. “If you intend to care for your sick aunt for the foreseeable future, I’ll assume that future does not include me.”

“Time, Sherlock. Give me time. Can you do that for me?”

Sherlock nodded. John reached down to Sherlock’s hand, running his fingers lightly  over Sherlock’s palm before finding a firm grasp.

“I’ll come by soon. I promise.” John sounded resolute, and Sherlock’s nervousness began to subside.

“I’ll be waiting for you.”


	6. First Frost

For Sherlock Holmes, waiting proved to be quite difficult. He would often peer out his kitchen window at John’s house, wondering what John was doing at that moment. He likely was not thinking about him, Sherlock presumed. Weeks passed, and November drew to a close without John’s even passing Sherlock along the road.

As the days dragged on, Sherlock began to fear that he would never see John Watson again. John seemed to be fully occupied with Milly, fully occupied with affairs that did not concern Sherlock. That beautiful night when their lips had touched, locked together in a strange beauty that Sherlock could not comprehend, seemed terribly distant.

Sherlock was not familiar with the concept of loneliness. He had been alone for so long that he had learned to recognize its aching feeling in the pit of his stomach as simply a part of life. However, as Sherlock had begun to spend more time with John, this pain had subsided. When his lips had brushed John’s, Sherlock began to ache for something more than companionship. His longing had intensified, but it was a new, exciting, wonderful sort of longing that ran warm through Sherlock’s body. Loneliness, on the other hand, lacked this warmth; loneliness was cold and merciless. As Sherlock kept his distance from John, this loneliness gripped him as it never had before.

In an attempt to distract himself, Sherlock began to focus upon his dogs and his flock. The chill of December brought out a new zest for life in his older sheepdog, Oak, who barked and trotted through the meadows as though he were still a puppy, chasing after anything that moved. There are no carriages for you to run after anymore, Oak, Sherlock thought. No John Watson to smile at you as you bound toward him. You’ll have to find other ways to keep yourself occupied. We both will.

At night, after locking the sheep in their enclosure, Sherlock had taken to strolling through the meadow. The nights were beautiful; stars gleamed above Sherlock’s head, and the peaceful silence was broken only by the occasional brey of a distant sheep. Sherlock never brought a jacket; the cold kept him alert. Often, he would watch as the lights of John’s house flickered out. First the parlor, then the kitchen, then a candle in what could only be John’s bedroom. Though Sherlock could not be with John, watching his lights fade assured him that John was there still, living out his uncomplicated life at the foot of the hill.

On one such night, Sherlock left his home to see John’s lights already extinguished. The air was crisp, and the harsh wind plastered Sherlock’s thin shirt to his back, sending a chill up his spine. Sherlock felt something wet on the back of his neck and looked up to see glinting white flecks falling from the sky. It was beginning to snow.

At once, Sherlock heard soft crunching noise coming from behind him. Footsteps.

“Hello?” Through the darkness, Sherlock could see the outline of a man.

“Sherlock?” John Watson’s familiar voice rang in Sherlock’s ear.

“John?”

“Sherlock, thank God, Sherlock.”

“Christ, John, it’s the middle of the night.” Though Sherlock feigned anger, it was impossible for him to conceal his joy. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve seen you wandering here around this time over the past few days. Besides, Milly’s asleep.” John smiled. “This is my free time.”

“Your ‘free time,’ yes,” Sherlock said. He would not give in to John’s words so easily. John had abandoned him; that fact still stood. “And you’ve chosen to spend it running aimlessly through the dark in the general direction of my home. Not your finest decision, I might say.”

“Sherlock, don’t be a git. I came here because--”

“Because what, John?” Sherlock took a step toward him. He bit his lip. “After weeks of silence, after saying you needed time, because what? Enlighten me, John, please--”

“Because I had to see you.” John reached out his hand to Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s grip first tensed, then loosened.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Oh.”

“I’ve tried to get away so many times, Sherlock, but she always needs something else from me. I’m all she has, do you understand?”

“I don’t want to talk about your sick aunt, John.” Sherlock’s tone wasn’t cruel. Merely factual.

John looked down. “No, I suppose you don’t.”

Sherlock closed his fingers around John’s hand. John looked up, and Sherlock’s anger melted away. John was here. John had found a spare moment and had come to him. Sherlock could run his fingers over John’s coarse hands, could feel his warm breath so near to his face. Sherlock leaned in toward John and felt John’s lips brush lightly against his own. At first it was gentle, cautious. Sherlock felt his pulse quicken. He pulled away, then returned. This time was fiercer, more passionate. Sherlock felt John’s hands slip from his own and find their place at the top of his hips. The touch was new, exciting, wonderful. Sherlock reached out to John, feeling his broad shoulders, his muscular arms, his ribs, his stomach. He wanted to memorize each curve of John’s body, to know it as his own.

At last, John and Sherlock parted. A rush of color spread to Sherlock’s face. He was thankful for the darkness then, thankful that John could not see his blush. John smiled, and Sherlock knew that there would be no more waiting, no more lonely nights. John would not leave him, Sherlock thought, smiling to himself. John would never leave him alone in the cold again.


	7. Most Sincerely Yours

The next evening, John Watson appeared again outside Sherlock’s door. This time, Sherlock needed no explanation. As he neared John, John looked up and pursed his lips.

“Milly’s asleep, I presume,” Sherlock said, reaching down to brush the tips of John’s fingers. John nodded. “Do you want to come inside?" Sherlock added hastily. "The fire is lovely, I can make some tea, we can--”

John cut Sherlock off. “I don’t have enough time, Sherlock. I can't let her wake up to find me gone." Apparently noticing the effect of his words on Sherlock, John's tone softened. "Under any other circumstances, I’d love to. You know that.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, trying to hide the pain in his voice. “Your dear Mildred Hurst couldn’t possibly know about us,” he added bitingly.

“Sherlock, without her, I couldn’t afford to live. I have nothing, do you understand? Apart from a distant uncle to whom I haven't spoken in years, Milly is the only family I have. And she was gracious enough to take me in. It’s the least I can do to take care of her. She needs me.”

Sherlock looked away. “That’s your only reason, then. You need to spend your time with her and not with me.” His words hung in the air. “And you’re not…”

John took hold of Sherlock’s hand. “Not what?”

“Ashamed. Of…” Sherlock searched for words to describe their situation, but they escaped him. “Of whatever this is.”

“Of course not,” John responded. “Though,” he added, biting his lip, “it may be best for us to keep this from her. For the time being, at least.”

Sherlock’s mouth hung open. The pain he had tried so hard to conceal now spread plainly across his face. He pulled his hand free from John. “So you _are_ ashamed, then. You’re petrified of her finding out about us.” 

“I’m not ashamed, Sherlock!” John reached out to Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock shrank back. “Sherlock," John said quietly. "Listen to me. Please, listen. I would be proud to hold you or kiss you in front of anyone else. But Milly… Milly has her own ideas about whom I should marry. I can’t afford to upset her, for the sake of her health as well as my own.” John looked down. “Sherlock, any qualms I have about Milly have nothing to do with you. Do you understand? She can alter the schedule of my days, yes, but she cannot change how I feel about you.”

“And how is that, exactly?” Sherlock feared the question, but asked it nonetheless.

John pressed a hand to Sherlock’s waist. This time, Sherlock did not resist. “I adore you, Sherlock Holmes. I’ve adored you since the moment I met you, and I will continue to adore you for as long as you will allow it.”

 _Adored,_ Sherlock thought. _“Adored,” not “loved.”_ Nonetheless, John’s words sent a feeling of warmth through Sherlock’s body. Sherlock leaned into John, who met his lips at once fiercely and tenderly. Sherlock closed his eyes. Everything about John was familiar to him, he realized. The curve of his lip, the outline of his jaw, the firmness of his arms. Their bodies had fallen into a beautifully intimate rhythm.

John pulled away, smiling. “You know, if it weren’t for Milly, I would never have met you.”

Sherlock smiled. “In that case, I suppose I do owe her. Maybe I'll send her a thank you card. Or a basket of fruit.”

John laughed, running his hands lightly over Sherlock’s waist. Conscious of his bony figure, Sherlock felt his every muscle tense. John looked up at Sherlock. “You’re beautiful, you know." He looked down. "Absolutely breathtaking.”

Sherlock shivered in pleasure at the compliment, unsure of how to respond. He did, however, become aware of a certain tightness of his pants that had not been present before. Once again, Sherlock was thankful that the darkness could hide the state of things. However, John was nearly pressed up against him. His light laughter as he ran his fingers past Sherlock’s hips merely confirmed that John was well aware of Sherlock’s growing erection. Sherlock felt a rush of blood spread to his face. If nothing else, the darkness could conceal his crimson cheeks quite well.

After a long moment, John pulled away. “It’s late. I should be heading back.”

Silence.

“I’ll come by tomorrow night,” John added. “And each night after that. I promise.”

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, smiling. 

John pressed a final kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

 

❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋

 

John Watson kept his promise. While his days belonged to Mildred, his nights belonged to Sherlock, and Sherlock was quite alright with that arrangement. He no longer needed to wait for carriages that would never come. As soon as the sun set over the hills, John Watson was pressed against him once again.

However, as sheets of white frost covered the countryside, it became increasingly difficult for John and Sherlock to meet outside. Unlike past winters, this December’s cold was practically unbearable, especially without the heat of the afternoon sun. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, he and John should abandon their stolen kisses in favor of long evenings spent by the fire. The domesticity of the thought filled Sherlock with joy. On the morning of December 28th, he penned the following letter:

 

John,

 

I invite you, tonight, to forego our usual meeting on the hill and instead join me at my home for tea and whatever may follow. I do so look forward to having you here in my arms and away from the frigid snow and ice that have plagued our last few encounters. As ever, I adore you.

 

Most sincerely yours,

SH

 

The letter itself had gone through a number of drafts before Sherlock delivered it to John’s doorstep. He left it without knocking, figuring that John would next open the door on his way to meet Sherlock. Additionally, Sherlock did not want to risk a confrontation between himself and Milly. Leaving the letter would be sufficient.

 

❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋

 

In the evening, Sherlock watched as the lights of John’s home flickered out. Having chosen his two most ornate tea cups and saucers, Sherlock waited patiently at his kitchen window to see John’s familiar outline as he made his way up the hill.

He waited for a knock on his door. He waited to welcome John with an embrace and serve him tea and biscuits. He waited to spend a beautifully domestic evening with the man he valued over all others.

However, John Watson never emerged from his house, never knocked on Sherlock’s door. Sherlock began to measure time in terms of the whistling of his tea kettle. Each time he heard its shrill sound, he would remove it from the stove and pour the water into the two teacups, hoping that his preparations would somehow predict the time of John’s arrival. Eventually, the tea would become cold, and Sherlock would begin the process once again, heating more water on the stove. It was to no avail. John did not come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update is already in the works and will hopefully be here by the new year. We're nearing the end of Part One now, and Part Two will probably begin around Chapter 10. I'll make it clear where that divide is once I've sorted everything out.


	8. After the Storm

As sunlight poured in through the kitchen window, Sherlock realized that he had spent the entire night awake, waiting. Yet morning had come, and John Watson still had not. Perhaps his note had gotten misplaced; perhaps John had gone to their usual meeting place. John would not simply abandon him, Sherlock reasoned. He had promised to come every night, and he had done so. Perhaps it was Sherlock who had left John alone in the cold. 

Sherlock sat down at the kitchen table and looked outside. The snow had kept falling throughout the night, it seemed. It covered the hills in a perfect blanket of white. The meadows seemed vast, endless. There was not a single flaw. Not even a footprint interrupted nature’s delicate handiwork.

No, not even a footprint. Sherlock bit his lip. John had not even walked up the hill. He couldn’t have.

Sherlock rose from his chair and returned to the stove to make tea for himself, setting John’s empty cup aside.  _ Won’t be needing that. _

 

❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋

 

The next few days continued much in their usual manner. Sherlock fed his dogs, watched over his sheep, refilled his ever dwindling supply of firewood. Winter held its slow rhythm, and Sherlock settled into his routine. It was fine, Sherlock thought. It was all fine. 

Except, of course, for the fact that John did not come to meet Sherlock at nightfall.

Sherlock attempted to blame John’s disappearance on the weather. Snow had fallen for days on end, he reminded himself. Even if John was determined to see Sherlock, it would be terribly difficult for him to scale the icy hill. It was likely best that they both stay indoors regardless, Sherlock thought. They would see each other again soon enough. When the snowstorm passed, things would return to normal.

Sherlock tended to his sheep and minded his own affairs despite John’s absence. However, without John, Sherlock felt strangely empty. The feeling puzzled him. In the little time that he had spent with John, Sherlock had become utterly dependent upon him. He had learned to look forward to seeing John’s smile, hearing John’s voice, feeling John’s body pressed up against his own. Sherlock had never known love, but he assumed it was something like this. If it was, he could certainly understand what all the fuss was about. John was, by all accounts, incredible. Moreover, he thought Sherlock was incredible; he thought Sherlock was beautiful. 

Yes, Sherlock decided, he quite enjoyed the current state of their relationship. He was not prepared to see it change. Even a single missed night seemed a dreadful curse. 

 

❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋

 

After four long days, the snow subsided. On the first frostless morning, Sherlock looked outside. A carriage was making its way up the snowy road, with two figures seemingly seated inside. John and Mildred, Sherlock presumed, braving the cold to go into town. They had been stuck in the house for ages and had likely run out of supplies. More importantly, they would pass directly by Sherlock’s door. 

At last, Sherlock would get to see John. The thought made Sherlock’s stomach turn in anticipation. Though it had been mere days since their last encounter, those days had felt like decades. Things may not be the same, Sherlock thought, anxious. The very concept made him dizzy. 

Sherlock tried quickly to dispel his fears.  _ Of course John would want to see him. _ There was nothing to be concerned about, Sherlock convinced himself. Nothing at all. 

It was all fine.

Sherlock put on his coat and stepped outside. 

 

❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋

 

The carriage drew nearer. Sherlock raised a hand to wave, yet John did not respond. He just isn’t paying attention, Sherlock thought. He’s focused on the horses, as he should be.

Giving up, Sherlock called out to him. “John!” 

At last, John waved. However, it was not John’s usual confident, enthusiastic wave. Somehow, it seemed smaller. 

John pulled up to Sherlock and stopped the carriage. “Holmes.” He looked down. “Good to see you.”

_ Holmes. _

“And you, Jo--” Sherlock stopped himself. “Watson.” This was some sort of show for Mildred, it seemed. Yet Sherlock had called John by his first name in front of his aunt before. There was no reason to hide that aspect of their familiarity.

John looked up, and his eyes met Sherlock’s with a force that sent a chill through Sherlock’s entire body. He made a slight motion toward Mildred, who remained staring forward despite the (albeit dull) conversation around her. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in response. John parted his lips.

_ She knows.  _

John had only mouthed the words, yet Sherlock could still hear each syllable clearly in his mind. They were harsh, cold, unwelcome. _She had found the note._ Of course she had found it. How daft Sherlock had been to suspect that she wouldn’t! It was Sherlock’s fault, then, for wanting domesticity. In wanting more, he had lost it all. 

Sherlock bowed his head, unsure of how to respond. He wanted to reach out to John, to comfort him, to kiss him. Instead, he stood in silence. The space between them seemed greater than ever before.

“Well, we’d best be off, then,” John said, hesitantly. “While the weather’s clear, that is.”

“Right,” Sherlock responded. His throat felt numb. “Right. Of course.”

“I’ll see you.” 

“Yes.”

John twisted the horses’ reins in his hands and set off toward town.  _ I’ll see you.  _ But when? Sherlock hoped that it would be soon, though he had no way of knowing. If Mildred disapproved, John certainly wouldn’t be able to see Sherlock every night. She would be watching over him. Making certain that he marry some rich young lady, Sherlock thought. A pang of anger hit him. She would not want John anywhere near Sherlock. That fact seemed clear enough.

As Sherlock watched the carriage reach the top of the next hill, his hands began to shake.

_ Goodbye, then.  _


End file.
